For a Lack of Wishful Thinking
by boldly
Summary: He says, "You aren't him." And it's nothing less than conviction.


Inspired by something our resident Dean said to my Sam a couple of nights ago - and had me so upset about it that this idea wouldn't leave me alone. So, have some angst. Actually, have a lot of angst.  
Standard disclaimer applies. I own nothing. And since it's been brought to my attention that I should probably do this from now on - here, thar be mention of incest. Maybe more than just a mention. Don't like it, don't read it. Simple as that, right?

-o-

Months. It's been months since they'd finally figured out what was wrong with Sam – and since he can't care, can't _feel_ to care, Dean's taken over in that respect.

Which means he sits and broods and Sam stares at him from across the room like he doesn't understand. Doesn't understand why his brother has suddenly gotten more quiet than he's ever been in his life. Why he can't seem to take pleasure in the simple things – like one of those greaseburgers he likes so much, or a cold beer fresh out of the cooler they keep in the backseat of the Impala. He doesn't say anything – just continues to watch him when he thinks Dean won't notice, a few thoughts skittering through the back of his mind that hold absolutely no meaning at all.

When one of them finally does speak up, it's a little bit surprising that it's Dean. Even more surprising is what comes out of his mouth when he opens it.

"Come here."

Sam just looks at him. A bit of cold calculation in those hazel eyes showing through, like he's weighing his options. He licks his lips. "Why? You don't want me." A pause, and he shakes his head.

"I'm not your brother, remember?"

Dean's face contorts into something like a grimace; like he'd somehow managed to finally overlook that fact, and didn't like being reminded of it. Sam can tell it hurts him … hurts him to even be as close as they are now, halfway across the room from each other.

It's been like this for months.

When his brother finally speaks again, his tone is softer. Almost broken – or maybe just as broken as a Winchester's pride will allow him to sound. He sighs, stares at the floor. Anywhere but at Sam.

"You might not be him – but you _know_ him. So figure out what to do to make me happy."

_That should hurt_, Sam thinks. Even as he's pulling himself out of his chair across the room and slips over to him, tugging him close and kissing him like he used to – all teeth and the slick, seductive slide of his tongue. It should hurt, the way his voice sounds like that, like he's finally given up and doesn't _care_ that it's finally come to that. It should hurt … and he thinks that if he weren't so numb, it would.

As it stands … he can't feel a thing. Nothing outside the physicality of bodies pressed tight together, hips rocking in that slow, _deep_ movement that he knows makes him crazy. He remembers those little hot spots – like the side of his neck, and that little patch of skin just beneath his navel – that bring the sounds he's long since committed to memory. Nothing can make him forget the way Dean moans when he comes; so close to a growl with teeth clenched, as every muscle draws tight and his entire body goes completely rigid … until he remembers to start breathing again, and he gasps so sharply that it _has_ to hurt.

He's memorized it all, line by line, note by note, until there's nothing _but_ Dean in the back of his mind. In the _forefront_ of his mind. And this, it's _almost_ perfect, _almost_ like every time before it –

Until he notices that his brother's eyes have been closed the entire time.

He thinks, _that should hurt, too_. But it doesn't. Nothing registers outside the almost-blinding, white-hot spark of pleasure that shoots down his spine as he reaches his own release, pressing as close to the body beneath him as he dares. It's almost like it used to be; hearts pounding, breaths staggering to slow, to be something other than ragged gasps that slip through clenched teeth. Kisses dropped over a bare shoulder, tongue darting out to gather the tiny drops of moisture that have collected in the hollow of Dean's throat.

They're quiet. Just remembering to breathe. And when Sam begins to pull away, it's still just as surprising when his brother doesn't let him – his eyes are still closed, brows still drawn down into what looks too much like a scowl. Fingertips trace along the line of Sam's spine, over his shoulders, into his hair. And he still doesn't open his eyes, even when his lips part with the first breath of speech.

"Why aren't you him?" A quiet, almost inaudible question. One that has Sam thinking, _I should care that I'm not_.

"Why can't you be him?"

He sighs. He knows he isn't – who he used to be, who he _needs_ to be. Or maybe just what _Dean_ needs him to be. He doesn't know.

And a part of him wishes he did. Another wants to be disgusted.

"I'm sorry I'm not him," he finally murmurs after a few heartbeats of stuttered silence. And for a moment, it sounds like the most sincere thing that's ever come out of his mouth.

Then Dean snorts. Rolls over onto his side, away from him. "Yeah."

"Me too."


End file.
